That's What People Do
by Little Minamino
Summary: James Moriarty died on the rooftop of St. Bart's, but that doesn't mean he finished his game. Now a three-shot.
1. Molly

**That's What People Do**

* * *

Molly's hands were steady, her movements smooth and practiced after years of work and study, as she dragged her scalpel along the chest of Mrs. Joy Davys in a perfect Y-incision. The almost muted strains of "A Thousand Years" by the Piano Guys broke through the stoic silence that usually accompanied a graveyard shift at the morgue. It wasn't her usual preference for music, but it was a gift from Mary last Christmas and Molly felt bad just letting it sit in her flat unused. She was surprised to find how much she enjoyed it. The strum of the cello, though deeper than the violin, served to remind her of Sherlock the more it was played.

A soft smile played on Molly's lips behind her mask as she set her scalpel aside and finished opening Mrs. Davys' chest. It had been several weeks since Sherlock was last in London, he'd gone off to Scotland, he said, following a lead on the last of Moriarty's network, but she expected him back any day.

Molly enjoyed the time Sherlock spent at her apartment, but she would be lying if she said it was all good. He was still Sherlock, scathing with his words at times and easily bored, but they were closer than they were before. Molly was sure of it. He actually saw her now instead of looking through her. They talked and more than once Molly found herself putting him back together after he stumbled into her flat looking worse than when he'd 'died'. That changed things between them, slowly but it did. They were friends now, Molly felt safe to say. And maybe, just maybe, a little something more.

There was a black spot on the bottom of Mrs. Davys' left lung and Molly turned on the recorder to take mention of it. The assumption by the police was natural causes but her son, Troy, was positive she'd been murdered. Sherlock would agree, she knew, so it was Molly's job to prove it.

Her phone buzzed and Molly nearly grinned. It was almost three am and only one person would be texting her. He did it often, and at random, usually with something trivial like 'I'm bored' or 'it's too cold'. She appreciated it though, it let her know he was still alive. And even though Sherlock would deny it, Molly knew that was the reason he did it.

Molly continued her observations, determined finish before checking her phone, only to have the phone buzz with two more texts in quick succession. That was unusual. Maybe he was hurt? With a sudden flash of panic, Molly stepped back from the table and peeled off her gloves, reaching below her apron and into the pocket of her lab coat to pull out her phone.

Her brow furrowed in confusion when Molly realized it wasn't Sherlock after all, but a number she didn't recognize. Curious, she opened the texts and froze.

_Why do we fall?_ Glared up at her. There was a download link and Molly clicked it. She nearly yelped at the candid shot of Sherlock with cross-hairs focused on his temple.

_Do I have your attention now, Ms. Hooper?_

Molly jumped and looked around as if the sender was somehow with her in the morgue. Naturally, there was no one there.

_Good_.

_Meet me on the roof._

_Tell no one._

_Come alone._

Trembling slightly, Molly cleaned up her space and pulled the sterile sheet over Mrs. Davys' head. How did someone get that picture of Sherlock? And why would they send it to her. Everyone thought he was dead, didn't they? A part of her hoped it was an old picture, taken before the Fall, but his hair was shorter from where she'd cut it three months ago to help him better blend in.

Molly slipped out of her lab coat and hung it carefully on the hook behind the door before taking one last look around the morgue to be sure that everything was in its place. Except for the body laid out on the table, it looked as though she was about to go home. A sick feeling settled in Molly's stomach and she swallowed hard. Suddenly everything felt so final. If she went up to the roof, she wouldn't be coming back down.

With one last fortifying look at the picture on her phone, Molly squared her shoulders and left the morgue with her head held high. She refused to show fear, no matter how deeply she felt it.

The night was rather cool as Molly stepped out onto the roof, the wind whipping slightly as it dragged her hair across her face and neck. Summer was finally over then. John and Mary were planning their wedding for November and Molly was the Maid of Honor. She was supposed to throw Mary's Hen Party but she hadn't thought to start on it yet. Yesterday there was still plenty of time.

"Hello Miss Hooper," came a low, masculine voice and Molly felt the hair on the back of her neck stand as a man stepped almost cat-like from the shadows.

"It's, it's Dr. Hooper…actually…" Molly said, her voice smaller and less confident than she'd hoped.

"Do you know why I asked you up here, Miss Hooper?" He asked and Molly was stiff and fidgety as she shook her head. He sighed as if disappointed. "It's for the Game, Miss Hooper. You were smart enough to fool Jim, something I never thought possible, so surely you're smart enough to know what that means."

"I-I'm afraid I don't."

"You broke the rules Miss Hooper."

"The-the rules?" Molly said, folding her fingers around each other to the point of being painful.

"They were simple enough, Miss Hooper. If Holmes died, we would leave his friends alone."

"Sh-Sherlock is dead." But Molly didn't sound convincing even to herself. "He j-jumped. From up here. Just over, over there."

"Yes he did," the man agreed. "But just because he jumped, doesn't mean he died. And why is that, I wonder." It wasn't a question, so Molly didn't respond. Instead she was trying to subtly slip her hand into her pocket and grab her phone. She needed to call Sherlock. She had to warn him.

"Now, now, Miss Hooper." The man sighed as he pulled out a gun. "None of that."

"What do you want?" Molly said, shaking so badly that she was surprised she didn't stutter.

"To finish the Game, of course."

"I won't let you hurt him." That came out braver than Molly expected and she mentally gave herself a pat on the back.

"Well that actually depends on you, Miss Hooper," he said and Molly really hated the way he said her name.

"What do you mean?"

"Since it was you that disrupted the Game, it only makes sense that you should be the one to put it back on track."

Molly's brow furrowed. What was that supposed to mean? The wind blew again and Molly shivered just a bit, wrapping her arms around her waist in an attempt to stay warm. Her eyes wandered a bit, taking in the roof before it suddenly clicked and she turned to the man feeling almost alarmingly calm.

"You want me to jump."

He grinned brightly, showing off a row of perfectly whitened teeth. "Very good Miss Hooper. You're not as stupid as I first assumed."

"But why? If I do jump, and you know I will, then what will you gain? And how do I know you won't hurt Sherlock anyway."

"I promise, Miss Hooper, if you jump—and I do know you will—there will be no reason for me to hurt Mr. Holmes."

"Then I don't understand, what would you gain?"

He chuckled. "Perhaps you're not quite as smart as I last assumed, Miss Hooper." He motioned towards her pocket. "Now if you would be so kind as to call Mr. Holmes?"

Molly froze. "Why?"

"Because you're going to tell him."

"You want me…to tell him about you?"

He rolled his eyes. "Of course not. You're going to tell him what you're doing and where you're doing it. And you're going to say it's his fault."

"He won't believe me," Molly said, frantically shaking her head. "He won't."

"Then make him believe you. Say whatever you have to, to make him believe that your death really is his fault. And I don't need to tell you, Miss Hooper, that if you mention me at all it won't just be you that has to die. I may be the last of the Network, but I was Jim's right hand. I know everything he knew and I know why Holmes did what he did. I'm not above carrying out those hits. Especially since they were mine to begin with."

Molly gave a strangled cry. "John? And Mrs. Hudson and Greg?"

He tilted his head in acknowledgment. "And your own dear Mr. Holmes of course."

Swallowing hard, Molly jerked her eyes to the edge of the roof. Her knees felt like jelly and her hands were trembling so hard she could barely hold her phone. "And-and if I do it, you'll leave them alone? All of them?"

"On my life, Miss Hooper."

She didn't believe him, not really, but then again, what choice did she have? Nodding slowly, Molly made the call.

The phone rang six times, and for one heart stopping moment, Molly was sure he wouldn't answer.

"What is it Molly?" Sherlock said, clearly agitated. "I assure you I'm quite busy."

It was such a Sherlock thing to say. Molly sobbed. There was a pause before Molly heard something shift on the other end.

"What is it Molly? What's wrong?"

"I-I'm done, Sherlock. I can't-can't do this anymore."

"Molly, what on Earth—"

"I can't keep lying for you. It's always the same, Sherlock, you say nice things to get what you want and then you just let me hope for nothing until I'm so depressed and sad that I try to get over you, only to have you say something else so sweet and nice that I can't-I can't go through with it."

"Molly—" He sounded worried now so Molly cut him off. If he said something nice again she wouldn't be able to go through with this. And she had to go through with it. She had to save him.

"And John, Sherlock! John's so sad and it's awful that I have to lie to him over and over and every time I see him he smiles at me and says he couldn't do this without me, that I'm his closest friend!" Molly sobbed again, horribly as tears poured down her cheeks. "It's terrible Sherlock! I can't keep doing it!"

"You don't have to Molly," Sherlock said, and he sounded almost frantic. "Tell him the truth. I'm almost done, it's only Moran left and then, Molly, I'm coming back. I promise."

Molly shook her head even though he couldn't see it, stifling more sobs behind her hand. "It's too late, Sherlock. Do you really think it will all be okay just because you're back? John will hate me, and poor Mrs. Hudson will be so upset. Even Greg will blame me because I knew, Sherlock, all this time I knew and I never said anything!"

"I'll fix it Molly. I swear I will."

"You can't Sherlock. You can't fix this. I don't-I can't…" She stopped, taking a shuddering breath. "I just can't Sherlock, not anymore."

"What-what are you saying Molly?"

"I'm saying I'm done, Sherlock," Molly said softly, her heart breaking with every word. "This…this is my note."

There was a sharp breath and Molly knew that he understood. Not just what she was doing, but everything. He knew she was being forced, knew that John and Mrs. Hudson and Greg were in trouble. That he was in trouble too and Molly was trying to make it better. To save them in the only way she knew.

"Don't do this Molly," Sherlock begged, actually begged, and Molly's breathing hitched around her sobs and tears. She'd never heard him sound so broken. "Please. I can still fix this. Just give me some time. I just need time!"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. But th-there is no more time."

"Molly!"

"Good-bye Sherlock."

She hung up, she didn't want him to hear those tiny tells that would draw what she was going to do like a map in his wonderfully brilliant mind. She didn't want him to see, like John saw, even if it was only through the recreation. Dropping the phone to the roof, Molly took one last look at Moran—because he had to be Moran—who was smiling at her like a proud father who's little girl just won full-marks in the school spelling contest. She turned away hating him. Hating herself.

Stepping up onto the ledge, Molly looked down into the inky black night and wondered who would find her. How long would she be laying there, on the ground in the dark, before some poor soul stumbled over her? She hoped Sherlock wouldn't find her. She really, really hoped it wouldn't be John.

There wouldn't be a laundry truck below her or someone waiting with blood to make it look real. No convenient biker to clip John to knock him down and disorient him so he wouldn't realize the body he was checking still had a heartbeat. No homeless network dressed up like Doctors and Nurses. And no Molly Hooper to forge the autopsy and death certificates.

Taking a deep breath Molly raised her arms, closed her eyes, and jumped.

* * *

Kaliea: So this is very similar to Squiet's On the Ledge (which I rather liked) but I just wanted to say that I started this before that story was posted. Not that I really need to defend myself, but whatever. Anyway, thanks for reading and don't forget to review!


	2. John

**That's What People Do**

* * *

The call came in from Mike Stamford at 7:13 in the morning. John was still sleeping, wrapped around Mary in a rare peaceful moment, when the strums of Katy Perry's 'Teenage Dream' broke through his sleep fogged brain.

"Really Mary?" John muttered, fishing around for his phone. Mary gave a sleepy giggle and snuggled back into his arms. He answered the phone with a lazy flick. "'Lo?"

"John? It's…It's Mike. I—you might want to get down to Bart's. Bring Mary."

Horror, pure frozen horror raced through John's veins and he shot up so fast he nearly dragged Mary along. "What's happened? What—is, is it Greg? Did he get shot? Mike?"

A long pause. "It's not the DI, John. It's…it's Molly."

John gave a strangled cry and the phone fell to the floor. He could hear Mike calling for him but everything was tunneling and he couldn't breathe and oh God, oh God, oh God he couldn't _do_ this again. Mary plastered herself to his back and wrapped one arm around his shoulders to press against his heart, the other was cupped around his wrist to check the pulse.

"Breathe, John," Mary soothed. "Just breathe. There's a good love. What's happened?"

He tried to tell her, Mary was Molly's best friend and she deserved to know, but John couldn't say it. Saying it would make it real and he didn't want to know what 'it' was.

"Okay," Mary said, passing her hands up and down his arms. "Let's just get dressed then and we'll head out, okay? Are we going to Bart's?"

It took all of John's strength to nod.

The ride to Bart's was a blur of sound and color that swirled together in a kaleidoscope of fear and pain and please, please, please let Molly be alright. They stepped into the lobby and up to the receptionist who looked up at them, undeniably bored.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes," Mary said, smiling kindly. "We're here to see…" She turned to John with a questioning frown. "Greg?"

"Molly Hooper," John croaked and Mary's face washed pale.

"No…" She said as the receptionist nodded. John couldn't bring himself to look Mary in the eye.

"I'm sorry," the woman said. "I don't have anyone listed under that name."

A rush of relief crashed over John's head and he slumped against the counter, his forehead pressed against the cool linoleum.

"Thank God…"

"John," Mike said and both John and Mary turned. John huffed in annoyance and crossed the room, suppressing the urge to slug the man in the face.

"You took nearly ten years off me, Mike. Now where's Molly? She in the morgue?"

"John," Mike said again and John abruptly noticed that Mike looked shaken and ill. Another block of ice fell to John's stomach. "Molly is in the morgue but…It's not…" He took a deep, steadying breath. "She's dead John."

Mary cried out in shock and horror but John couldn't even comfort her because his whole foundation was suddenly ripped out from beneath him and he was falling. Strong hands grasped his elbows, keeping him from hitting the floor, but he didn't have the strength to stand. He couldn't even find the strength to cry.

In a lot of ways, Molly was all John had left. She was the surprisingly steadfast anchor mooring him and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade in the raging storm of emotion that followed those first months after Sherlock's funeral. Mary was a great help, more than that really, but she never knew Sherlock. She never understood those small, daily things that made John choke up or laugh or roll his eyes because she never had the chance to experience those moments like Molly had.

It was Molly that reached down and picked up John's broken pieces, carefully and reverently patching him back together with sad smiles and warm hugs. She became like a sister to him, a better one than Harry ever was, and losing her caused the healing rift Sherlock left behind to tear open once again only this time it was deeper and wider and John didn't know if it could ever be fixed.

Mary was sobbing in the background and John tried to pull himself together. He mechanically stepped back and took his fiancée into his arms, passing a hand over her back in robotic motions that couldn't possibly be comforting. He looked up at Mike and felt dead.

"What happened?"

Mike didn't want to say, John could see him struggle.

"She…she jumped."

John wondered if he was next.

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Kaliea: So somehow I ended up continuing this. Not entirely SURE how, but there it is. I have one more chapter to post but then it's done for good, I swear. Ta, and don't forget to review!


	3. Sherlock

**Sherlock**

* * *

Molly Hooper was dead; laid to rest on a crisp December day as steely gray clouds hung overhead, threatening snow. Her grave site was unsurprisingly barren as Molly was a fairly private and introverted person who had no remaining family and very few friends. Those that where there, however, were deeply affected. John in particular looked as if a stiff breeze was all it would take to blow him over. His skin was pale and papery, his features having aged several years since Sherlock last saw him. His eyes were focused on the casket unblinkingly while his hand closed tighter and tighter on the arm of the tall blonde at his side. Her name was Mary Mortson and in the last two years, she'd become Molly's closest friend.

They confided everything in each other, except for the truth of Sherlock's death, as made obvious by the increased mention of Mary in the texts Molly would send him from time to time. Mary was Molly's John Watson, and Sherlock couldn't help the stab of sentiment in his chest at the thought. Because, eventually, John would have his Sherlock back, but Mary would never again have her Molly.

Greg Lestrade stood next to Mrs. Hudson, his arm about her waist to hold her up, and both of their heads were lowered. Mrs. Hudson's shoulders were trembling slightly and Lestrade had tears in his eyes. Mike Stamford stood alone and sad, his hands folded tightly across his stomach to stop them from clenching and unclenching the way his jaw did as the priest spoke.

A few other colleagues of Molly's were about, but Sherlock didn't know their names because he never bothered to remember. They weren't important, just faces in the morgue that blended into the sterile walls. They didn't matter, they didn't count. Not like Molly.

"This is my note," Molly said and Sherlock was suddenly back on that roof, watching her stand on the lip as tears flowed freely down her lovely face. It never should have happened. Sherlock should have been there, he should have protected her. He should have just died that day.

She was scared at the end, Sherlock could hear that clearly, but also brave. So heartbreakingly brave and Sherlock wished more than anything that he could have reached through the phone and found himself back in London, to be there at her side and wrap her up in his arms to protect her from Sebastian Moran who was so obviously the cause of today. But he couldn't, it was already done. Molly Hooper was already dead.

"May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace," the priest said and Sherlock wanted to scream. It took everything he had to remain still and hidden, the groundskeeper hat pulled low over his curly locks, as Mary gave John's hand a gentle squeeze and then stepped forward to drop a handful of dirt into the grave. John's knees gave out and he collapsed with an anguished cry. The mourners lurched forward to help him but Sherlock didn't stay to watch. He turned and ran.

Molly's plot was at the far end of the cemetery—plain, simple and easily overlooked—and Sherlock's lungs were burning when he finally made it to the gate. But the run wasn't that far or difficult, so why did he have so much trouble with it? His breathing hitched with a sob and Sherlock belatedly realized he was crying.

"Well isn't this a sight?"

Sherlock spun, his hands unconsciously coming up in a defensive position. His eyes landed on the speaker, a middle-aged man who was neatly groomed but carried at least a day's worth of untrimmed stubble on his chin and cheeks. He was tall, at least an inch taller than Sherlock, and his brown hair was cut short in the standard military style. Sherlock didn't recognize him, having never seen him before, but he knew who the man was.

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said, his voice low and venomous as he contemplated just how many ways he could kill this man with only his bare hands. Moran's lips quirked in a friendly grin.

"Call me Seb."

"Go to Hell."

Moran sighed as though disappointed. "Is that anyway to talk to a man that's done you a favor? How ungrateful."

"Bastard," Sherlock hissed, calculating just how much force was needed to lunge across the space between them and break Moran's neck.

"I wouldn't if I were you," Moran said, his expression going cold as his eyes narrowed. "There's quite a bit more at stake than you think."

"You're the last one," Sherlock said, equally cold. "There's no one to avenge you, no one else to cause problems."

Moran's head canted. "Not all true."

"Enlighten me."

Reaching into his coat, Moran extracted a burner phone and tossed it. Sherlock caught it without a flinch just as it rang. Moran grinned.

"Go ahead. Answer it."

Growing quickly tired of Moran's less than interesting game, Sherlock answered the phone and brought it to his ear but didn't bother to speak. There was a long, drawn out silence.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

The phone slipped from his fingers and thumped to the dirt as Sherlock gave Moran a wide-eyed stare.

Molly Hooper was alive.

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Kaliea: The End! For real this time :)


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